


DA033: Scribble

by Rhion



Series: Seasonal Prompts [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words when used by a master are like a many tiered cake. And no amount of scribbling and no amount of straightforwardness makes any sense of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	DA033: Scribble

**Author's Note:**

> I am a switch-hitter extraordinaire. 5hrs of writin’ total, not includin’ breaks for food. Voila. 6,140 words of stuff. Also, the amount of elvish dirty talk would have been far more minimal if I did not have my trusty elvish yammerin’ friend to bug.
> 
> Elvish translations at the bottom

The thing with writing is that no matter how good with words one is, one can never fully capture the entirety of the scene or the person. There are so many tiny little details that can so easily slip through, like the taste of an apple, or the fact that dirt has a thick, cloying flavor that hits in the back of the throat when someone takes a deep inhale.... Or the fact that pain itself is not so bad, but the ceaseless ache that surrounds and follows a sharp pain that was the worst.  
  
Nylima Mahariel was used to not being good with words. Not the way that flat ear was. But she watched him use words the way the Keeper had used ink on her flesh to make the vallislin she bore. Like an artist, it was in each move of his lips, the flick of a finger just so during a conversation. He used words like weapons too - Nylima had never known someone could use them that way before. Like a scythe he could cut through a person’s defenses and arguments, or he could slip and twist those words to find a chink in armor - striking home and felling his opponent.  
  
She wasn’t sure if she was in awe of the skill or put off by it, because she never could really know where she stood with him.  
  
“Ah, evening my fairest Warden,” a smile tipping those lips upwards in seeming genuine pleasure. “The night is lovely, is it not?”  
  
Nylima kept the instinctual answering smile from her expression, locking everything behind the mask she wore to those not of her clan and tucking her journal away, “It is humid, and the air stinks of death.”  
  
The other elf shrugged, “I was not speaking of the atmosphere.”  
  
“Then what were you talking about?” attempting to probe this enigmatic man, unable to stop herself from the task, no matter that she was sure it would fail.  
  
He shifted his weight forward, running a thumb along the corner of his jaw as he sucked in a breath, seeming to take the time to puzzle out an answer, “Perhaps the stars or the company. Or maybe I was only speaking in general, for many nights are pleasant.”  
  
“That’s not an answer, that’s a list of suggestions as to what I might assume,” putting the small leather bound book into her pack, hiding it away from someone who knew words in ways she never could and would be able to use her private thoughts to his own ends.  
  
Zevran’s chuckle was deep, head thrown back, “Then choose whichever you prefer, for all are true.”  
  
Again he was using that artful way of speaking that Nylima didn’t understand. She heard the words, saw the actions, but which were real and which were artifice meant to cause her to lower her guard? And what would he do if her guard was actually lowered? Keeper Marethari never said anything about the nuances and meanings that people layered with inflections onto something that should be a simple statement. Give her some darkspawn or a goal, and Nylima could understand it.  Those were concrete things. Inviolate. But this strange dance put her in mind of several creatures found in the Brecilian Forest.  
  
There was a particular snake, beautiful and silver toned, that would wend and weave its body this way and that, until onlookers were mesmerized so that it could strike and inject its deadly poison. And there were the giant trap spiders which dug burrows or hid in the roots of trees, appearing completely innocuous. But oh, how deadly they were. Poison that could fell a hundred men from a simple bite, from a slight lack of attention to detail. Zevran was like that.  
  
Picking out exactly what it was he thought was impossible, and he would never answer a direct question on it in a straightforward manner. No matter that he could give a blunt answer, it was the way he said it, the movement or lack of it, the tone, the shifting in his features. Nylima knew of the flat-ear’s history, of lost gloves and harsh training, and many, many lovers. She knew of the man, but not the man himself.  
  
And until she did, she would have to guard against those strange inflections he gave everything, those varied meanings and hidden, delicate traps, for who knew what sorts of poison he hid?  
  
XXX  
  
A hand touched the back of her shoulder, pressing gently, urging her to duck, and over her head a sword sheared the air, slicing along the exposed throat of the bandit, who fell away clutching at his neck. Nylima darted to the side, just as Zevran was spinning away, thrusting his dagger into the gap between cuirass and armpit. For a moment she was distracted watching Zevran fight, flowing between filthy shemlen bandits, gone desperate or bold with the Blight’s privations.  
  
Because of her inattention she had forgotten the archer she had been trying to reach, and she didn’t notice the arrow speeding through the air. Not until it struck its target, who made no noise, only staggered before continuing to battle on. With a sharp, lupine howl, Nylima launched herself towards the archer who got off another shot, and she didn’t know if it landed or not. She just knew she had to deal with the threat.  
  
In a flurry of hacking and stabbing she took down the man who had to have near a foot on her and was heavy with muscle, swinging his bow at her like a club until he dropped it, going for his blades. But she didn’t give him more time than that, riding a rising tide of anger. She had been inattentive. She hadn’t watched a comrade’s back.  
  
She had failed.  
  
Again.  
  
XXX  
  
“Hush now child,” Wynne said soothingly. “He needs rest, but he is stronger than he looks.”  
  
Nylima was restless inside, but remained outwardly calm, “He is half-Dalish, of course he stronger than he looks.”  
  
The old woman smiled at her, “Yes, yes I suppose so. But I am tired, you know. These old bones aren’t used to slogging about.  All that time in the Tower, it does a body a bad turn.”  
  
“Someone should watch him,” stating what she hoped sounded like a simple thing. Like nothing more than the worry of a good leader. Sensible. Logical. “Maybe I should get Morrigan.”  
  
“Child, she too is tired,” pointing out and Nylima couldn’t believe she had forgotten that Morrigan had taken on the rest of the party’s healing while Wynne handled the worst case. “Allow the Chasind her rest as well.”    
  
Pursing her lips she revealed a bit of her unease, “Someone has to watch him through the night.”  
  
Which was true, yet Nylima couldn’t bear to be the one to volunteer. She had to be told that it was alright to, that there was no one else to do it. Because if she gave in, then she would reveal too much to all these round eared people, whom she nominally led. Any weakness, any chink in her armor would lead to disaster.  
  
As if Wynne knew all, the Circle mage gave her a mysterious smile as she headed to her own tent to rest, “Then I suppose you’ll just have to find someone to do it.”  
  
Praying to the Creators for strength, Nylima realized that everyone else was busy or sleeping. That left her to go and watch after the assassin. The only other person she had failed in her life. He had fallen because she was too busy watching how he moved and wondering why it was he always showed up to watch her back. And why it was that he was the only other person who ever had watched out for her. Two people, and she had fallen into inattention because she could not keep her eyes on the target, but on them instead.  
  
Creeping into his tent, the Warden sat beside his bedroll.  Zevran looked ruddy in the strange light from the glass jar he used to hold a fragment of firerock, granting a hot glow to the confining canvas area. However, she knew that in normal light, the assassin was ashen from blood loss beneath the bronze of his skin. After the fight he had waited to pass out until they got back to camp. Somehow, even with two arrows (the length of their shafts broken off) sticking out of him he had limped, waving off any offer of assistance, the whole time making quips like he was completely fine.  
  
Cautiously she sat down, crossing her legs under her, trying to find a comfortable spot on the canvas floor. Zevran’s tent was smaller than anyone else’s, as it had been something they scavenged, and he had fashioned it on the fly. It was probably one of the sturdiest ones, but there was barely enough room for his pack, his armor which had been laid out neatly, his weapons and his bedroll, let alone an extra body, no matter that it was an elven one. The fur cloak-blanket that Keeper Lanaya’s clan had equipped everyone’s new sleeping rolls with was pulled up to the sharp line of chin, and the bag that could be stuffed with clothes to become a pillow was shoved under his head.  
  
Sighing to herself, Nylima reached out, brushing a lock of loose hair from his forehead the way Tamlen would do for her. He looked oddly vulnerable with his hair down, face lax and far younger in sleep, with no mask held in place. She trailed a callused finger over the tattoo at the corner of his eye, wondering what really went on behind those eyes when they were open.  
  
“Mm, stealing into my tent, Nylima? What would they say to that?” eyes remained closed, features still lax, lips only moving enough to speak.  
  
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you were actually awake,” pulling her hand away from his cheek reluctantly.  
  
“Ah, but you are?” the mask beginning to settle back into place as he opened his eyes. “And here I had thought I had corrupted you already. Tchk, I shall have to endeavor to try harder.”  
  
It was a sad thing to watch the lines return, not because they didn’t look good on him, but because of what they meant. They meant a return to layered words and strange things that Nylima didn’t understand. What was more than that, they showed a loss of innocence that was clearly not natural to his face. In some ways it reminded her of her own mask. The one that showed nothing but immovable, untouchable, tattooed marble. Hers was not something meant to be inviting, to draw others in, to make them reveal themselves for an attack. Hers was to warn others off, to keep them at a distance so that they never had a chance to strike at her.  
  
“Why do you talk like that?” somehow voicing the thing that had bothered her for so long. “Like one of those...things of sweet bread with the layers.”  
  
“You mean a cake, I assume?” wincing as he pulled the blanket down some, revealing the bandages on his chest as he probably sought to get comfortable.  
  
Nodding, “Yes. One of those. You talk like...like everything is too many things at once. It makes it so no one ever knows what you really think. I don’t like it.”  
  
“Then I could attempt to not talk at all, if that is your wish,” watching as his head turned away from her, his arms slipping back beneath the cover.  
  
That wasn’t what she wanted at all.  
  
“No, I want you to talk,” keeping the frown from her face by dint of will. “But I want to know what it is that you think, not just a flood of different meanings that make me pick and choose what you might mean. I just want to know that there isn’t any art for once. Just plain speech. Just the man, not the mask.”  
  
The Crow shifted around in obvious discomfort, whether from pain or her words, “Ah, but we all wear masks, and sometimes we become the mask, forgetting what it was like to be any other way. You do the same, yes?”  
  
She chewed at her lip, watching him, uncertain herself.  There had never been another, not since she left her clan, to whom she felt she could simply let go and truly speak with.  All these shemlen surrounding her; she could not relax, not for a second.  But here, in the poor light from his lantern, surrounded by canvas walls, there were no other witnesses. And yet she had not let him see past her own barriers, for fear of the traps he would lay.  
  
“I do.  But...it is...so tiring,” sighing, fatigued to the bone, without intending to give voice to that thought.  
  
Zevran was quiet, and she thought he had fallen asleep for real this time. It wasn’t until she herself was starting to nod off, sitting up with chin tucked into her chest, that he spoke, “Then rest if you are tired. You are safe enough here, so long as you do not fear my being a flat-eared elvhen’alas rubbing off on you.”  
  
She hissed under her breath.  “Elvhen’alas I have seen, but I’m certain I do not count any amongst my friends.”  
  
“Ah,” and again with that layered ‘cake’.  “To be sure then, such as I would not be amongst such a close group of yours.”  
  
Nylima straightened, infuriated with him, but she did her best to keep her voice level, even as she ached to drop the mask and simply be and let him see her agitation.  She could not stop the tiny grunt of irritation that slipped out, however.  “I’ll try to speak even more plainly.  Perhaps it escaped your notice that there are only two pairs of pointed ears in this camp, but I assure you, it’s entirely purposeful.  I’m not in the habit of surrounding myself with people I...can’t trust.”  
  
A dark chuckle, “Oh, I like that one. Perhaps you should tell Alistair that you trust the elvhen’alas whoreson of an assassin who was contracted to kill you both, over him. Such fun! I can just imagine his expression.”  
  
She snorted.  “He can’t see the difference between ‘duty’ and ‘loyalty’.  To him, they are one and the same.”  
  
“True enough,” still keeping his face turned away from her, so she could catch no sight of his expression. “However, you can? Is this some...unheard of Warden power, or one that only a true Dalish has? Tchk, to be able to pick out loyalty amongst murderers would be a power worth having. If it were real.”  
  
She felt her lips thinning to a hard line and tried to remain reasonable, but either he was baiting her, or he was truly blind.  “Hmph.  You might be right.  All I have are my own perceptions...and illusions, apparently.  Perhaps what I perceived to be loyalty today was simply duty to your newest slave master.  I...see I was mistaken.  Forgive my impertinence.”  She shifted, trying to gain enough room to make for the flap that would allow her access to outside.  
  
“I knew this would happen,” he muttered, shooting it off like a last barbed arrow, aiming low for the kill, “eventually. It always does, I am far too good at corrupting others. It is a fine skill I have. You seem to have mastered the use of ‘cake’ as you put it so eloquently. Well done, my fair Warden, well done.”  
  
Nylima growled, beyond irritated.  “You make no sense!”  She shifted, turning back to him, frowning.  “I try to show you some...some...sign of friendship, and you...you throw it back in my face!  Using words for yourself that I never uttered to you, acting as though this is pulled from my very thoughts!”  
  
“And is it not?” she thought his hands might be making fists under the blanket from the way he shifted, the way the area near where his hands should be seemed to dip. “I lived amongst the Dalish long enough to know exactly what they thought of someone like me. It would have better had I been a true flat-ear come to find freedom, rather than the cursed seed and a half-breed. How they would look at me askance, with pity and revulsion. No matter that they called me lethallin, none would bother to be my actual friend or my Bonded, even as I was told I was accepted, I was not.”  
  
Ah, so that is the heart of it.  All the irritation fled her in an instant, and her voice softened with it.  “Every clan is different, Zevran, every Keeper unique.  Amongst my people, we were taught that all of us are important, no matter where we may have come from, because there are so few of us left anywhere.  We never turned such scorn upon someone who truly wished to be amongst us.  It would have been foolish to discard skill for the sake of some sense of superiority.  And I have never been one to consider myself a fool.” Reaching out she touched the blanket, over his fist, “Besides, when it comes down to it, we’re all flat ears. Not one of us comes from Arlathan directly. We’re all born of slaves somewhere down the line.  In my clan...you would have been surrounded by those who wished to learn from you, and...offers of many kinds, besides.”  
  
“Ah, it sounds like a veritable paradise of nubile, Dalish beauties,” with only a mild hint of mockery.  
  
Nylima snorted again.  “Yes you may think so but you wouldn’t say that if you had met Merrill.  Or Pol.”  She shuddered at the thought of them, and remembered that one weird time she and Merrill had gotten just a little too tipsy. It was an experience she would love to forget.  
  
“Oh? Do tell,” giving her one of those little chuckles that said he had read a thousand things into what she said. “You have some...personal experience with her?”  
  
“Creators save me! I don’t even want to think about it, Zev,” wincing at him, though he probably couldn’t see it. “I was young and stupid, and it was my first bottle of honey whiskey, ever.  Not a little drunk, but very drunk.”  
  
“Hm, save us all from such rash things that drink inspires us to do,” and finally he turned to look at her some, rolling partially on his side. “Come, tell me of it, and we shall commiserate over stories of foolish, drunken escapades, yes?”  
  
XXX  
  
Nylima shifted and yawned, burrowing closer to the warmth beside her. Zevran was still asleep she assumed, the two of them snuggled into his bedroll, with her curled around him protectively. They had talked into the night until he got a bad case of the shakes, which had spurred her to climb under his blanket after stripping her leggings off, and she had wound her body around him to grant him her heat. His head was somewhat heavy, but the buffer of the pillow prevented her arm from going numb as they both used it to rest their heads upon it. Rubbing her nose into his neck, the Warden smiled.  
  
It had been a long time since she had been able to hold someone close. To let go and talk and laugh. And to know that she was not just safe around someone, but that they were safe, too.  
  
Wiggling closer, she ran a hand down his shoulder, along his arm, to his hand were it rested in front of his chest so that she could curl her fingers over the loose fist.  
  
“Good morning, my fair Warden,” fingers shifted so that they could pull her hand closer, twining the digits. “I trust you slept well?”  
  
“Mmmh...best night of sleep I’ve had since this whole mess began.  Your voice is stronger.  I take it you’re feeling better?” giving his hand a squeeze and pushing a cold foot between his calves, curling closer.  
  
He rolled over in her arms, and she scooted only enough so that he had room, “Much, our Wynne is quite the healer when she puts her mind to it.”  
  
As soon as he was facing her, Nylima pulled on him gently, urging him to lay his head on her shoulder, “I’m grateful to her for that, even though she’s a shemlen.”  
  
Zevran seemed surprised by her actions, but complied, “My dear, Wynne being human does not automatically mean she is incompetent or has some ulterior motive.” His hair was silken under her palm as she stroked the back of his head down his back, “You are far too quick to dismiss others not of our species.”  
  
Making a face, Nylima sighed, “And why shouldn’t I? Think on it, Zevran.  When has anything good come from mixing with humans?”  
  
The Crow grunted raising himself up on his elbow to look at her, “Nylima, you should ask yourself this: when has cutting off interaction with them resulted in anything positive? The fall of Arlathan, the fall of the Dales...these happened because we pulled away. They look at the Dalish with fear, and the Chantry hunts the clans because of this.”  
  
“And what do you suggest we do, Zev? We should not have to submit ever again.  I don’t think our people would be happy in cities, spit upon and treated like dirt,” shaking her head the Warden looked at him in confusion.  
  
Zevran touched her forehead tracing the tattoos there, “I never said such. I would never suggest anything of the like, my Warden. People -- all people, human, elven, dwarf, qunari -- they should fight to make their life. Earn it. We are all equal in that we live and breathe and die. We must all understand each other, or we will only all suffer in the end until there is nothing left but humans and all the magic of our individuality bleeds away like trickling water through a holey bucket.”  
  
She stared up at him in surprise.  “That clan was stupid to have let you go.”  
  
“Ah, it is a good thing they did probably, for the Crows do not let go of their members with any grace,” a sardonic twist of lips. “I may not have been well accepted, but I bear them no ill-will. Not so much as to warrant their destruction. It was best for all around that I left on my own. Besides, the little ones did not mind me, and it would have been a tragic loss for all if harm had come to them on my account.”  
  
“And one for me, as well,” she murmured, impulsively leaning up to press her lips against his chin.    
  
“Oh? And what was that for?” his eyebrows rose high on his forehead.  
  
Blushing at the implications she picked up on, “Because I wanted to thank you for being...the man you are.”  
  
“And what sort of man is that? A devilishly handsome one?” and she thought she might sense some self-deprecation in that statement. As though that was his only redeeming quality.  
  
“No, a good one. A strong one,” saying it with conviction. “One who’s a good friend, and someone I can always trust at my back.”  
  
She watched him blink in obvious confusion, realizing that his mask had fallen away completely, “These things you say, Nylima....”  
  
“Are true,” hoping that she was showing him the same courtesy of baring herself to him.  
  
He shook his head, bewildered, “These things you say, Nylima, they are.... From others I would ask what they hoped to gain, if I asked anything at all.”  
  
It was her turn to be confused again, “Gain?”  
  
“For saying such a thing, that you trust me, that I am strong or good,” shrugging minutely and staring down at her, his hand moving to cup her cheek.  
  
Closing her eyes she leaned into the touch, “I gain nothing but knowing I’ve told you what I think.”  
  
“How strange,” his voice had a queer note to it.  
  
Contentedly she rubbed her cheek against his palm, happy with the small touch, not expecting anything more. And stupidly grateful. No one had touched her with such gentleness since Tamlen died. So it surprised her when she felt lips touching the corner of her mouth and part of Zevran’s weight shifted onto her. Not so that he was directly atop her, but enough for her to feel him and to feel accepted.  
  
Sighing, Nylima turned her head so that she could brush his mouth when he parted from her, “Ma serannas.”  
  
“Hmmnna’tu ar’nehn, emma sa’reth,” the Elvish hummed against her cheek, and she wondered at the beauty of his voice on the language.    
  
“You know, I probably should get up and have Wynne take a look at you,” not wanting to move at all under any circumstance.  
  
More of him moved over her as he spoke, “I do not wish you to go.  I am healed enough that she need not be troubled.  And I am healed enough that we need not restrain ourselves.”  
  
Brow furrowing, Nylima touched his sides and back, relishing his weight but confused nonetheless, “Restrain?”  
  
One of those typical huffing chuckles rumbled up from his throat, “Yes, from what we are going to do.”  
  
“What...are we going to do?” still not understanding. Surely he could not be speaking of what she thought he meant?    
  
What she wanted to do was shed her tunic and feel him on her bare skin. But now that he understood her thoughts, she didn’t think he would see her as more than a cousin, a close friend. Maybe, eventually, hopefully he would see her as a potential lover again. She wouldn’t rush him though, even as she did not want to waste any more time. The Blight could take anything away, anyone away, in a mere blink of an eye. Nylima had found that out with Tamlen. With her clan. With the path of destruction she had seen from one end of Ferelden to the other, some of it sown by her own hand.  
  
Zevran had once said that she should take her pleasures where she could find them, and because of the Taint and the Blight itself, she must.  
  
She still wouldn’t push him.  
  
“Why, whatever we wish, of course,” the words whispered over her lips, and she opened her eyes in time to realize what he was about to do.  
  
Like rose petals, his smooth lips slid over hers, and she opened her mouth to him hungrily. It had been too long. Too long since she wanted anyone, too long since she had anyone to want, and anyone who wanted her in turn, for herself and no other real reason. Or she hoped that was his only reason, but she could not be entirely sure. This all dashed across her mind as the weight of him pressed down on her, the width of his chest filled her embrace, tickling strands of hair swung down around them in a curtain and the taste of his sleep flashed in her mouth with the thrust of his tongue.  
  
Moaning, Nylima met him hungrily, hands running over the backs of his shoulders, the bandages only giving her minor pause, reminding her to keep her touch light.  
  
“Nylima, I am not made of glass, I will not break,” licking the line of her ear before sucking on the sharp point.  
  
Hissing, her eyes rolled back as the wetness of his mouth combined with the edge of his teeth, sending her nipples to tightness and her skin to burning. Not one to lay passively, she pushed on his shoulders, nuzzling at his neck the whole time, until he was the way she wanted him. Before he could say anything, she was sinking down, kissing all the available unbandaged flesh of his torso and holding his hips to the pallet. Above her, Zevran’s breathing picked up, and he gave a muted groan as her path became not just obvious but inevitable. Biting the tendon that ran to his groin in a ‘V’, Nylima wasted no further time, other than to give the head of his cock a lick, tasting the small pearl of precum that had welled up. Wrapping her lips around the head, pulsing her tongue around the crown and then his length as she sank him further into her mouth, as far as she could, the Warden scratched the insides of his thighs lightly.  
  
All these actions earned her a deep gasp and hands in her hair, not quite pushing her down more, but enough to let her know that that was what he desired. Humming around him, Nylima looked up to see Zevran staring down at her hungrily, his lips parted as he panted quietly. Forcing herself to swallow and flex the muscles of her throat as she slid down, she fought off the urge to gag, wanting very much to give him a good ‘Dalish’ wake up call. Nylima was not going to let off until he made her or until he released himself in her mouth, whichever came first. With slow and torturous sliding up and down his thick cock, the Warden watched him struggle to keep a tight rein on his pleasure.  
  
Well, she wanted none of that. They had both held off too long on this, or at least she had, and Nylima wanted every last drop of his seed to spill across her tongue. Moaning and staring into his eyes, hollowing her cheeks, giving him everything she had until his prick twitched between her swollen lips. When Zevran tried to push her away gently, Nylima instead sucked harder, pulling back to hold just the crown in her mouth, lashing him with her tongue, using one hand to massage his shaft in twisting motions.  
  
“Ny...Nylima, querida,” grip tightening in her hair, his plea desperate.  
  
Moaning, she begged him to let loose, without speech, but with clear intent. Another series of twitches, the shivering of his cock heralding the impending splash against the roof of her mouth. When it hit, the force behind it was strong, and all of Zevran’s muscles locked, eyes clenched closed, teeth bared in a pleasured grimace. Pulling the thread of semen from him, Nylima suckled on him until there was none left, enjoying the thick richness of his flavor.  
  
With great reluctance she let him go with a soft pop and a tiny grin, “Isala na’ir elgar.”  
  
“Abelas, emma durgen’din...I have no more for now,” but that didn’t stop him from grabbing her and dragging her to him, his mouth going to hers and sucking on her lip. “But I have other things to give, yes?”  
  
Nylima let him drag off her tunic and unwind her breastbind so that he could take a meandering path over her chest. Arching as he sucked on a nipple, she let out a long, needy whine, while his hands were busy running over her legs and hips, bucking restlessly when he brushed his fingers over her thatch of already sopping curls.  
  
“Zev, emma s’arla, na’isala’atisha, please!” spreading her thighs, Nylima fell back to the pallet, running her hands down over her breasts and to her sex, spreading her folds for him, tracing her opening.  
  
Zevran growled at her, pulling the hand she had used to touch her hole so that he could suck the juice from it, “I shan’t leave you wanting, my word upon it.”  
  
And then his strong hands were on the back of her legs, and he leaned down to drag his tongue from top to bottom, where he speared her entrance with the wet muscle. Zig-zagging tracks were laid over her opening before he focused on her clit, his fingers tapping meaningless patterns along her thighs, working their way up until two fingers slid into her sheath. Moaning deeply, Nylima thrust her hips upwards, begging, pleading as his fingers moved within her, his tongue drawing shapes over and around her button, until she was a shivering mass.  
  
“Please, please, nuvenin na’mi sahlin, Zevran, s’arla, na’din ar nehn’din!” crying out when she thought she could take no more.  
  
That spurred Zevran to ardor it seemed, not that Nylima cared, so long as he joined his body to hers. She needed to feel him, to feel him vital and alive, to know that he would still be here tomorrow. That the Blight had not robbed her of his presence. Wrapping her legs and arms around him once more, she gasped when he filled her body with his hard cock, stretching her and completing the horrible ache and banishing it. Rocking against and with him, Nylima cried out her joy as Zevran worked himself in and out of her strongly.  
  
When her orgasm hit, it was powerful, earthshaking, and Zevran intensified it for her by wrapping his arms around her waist and heaving so that he was on his knees, all that supported her. She was impaled forcefully as she watched him moving in and out of her body, his expression filled with his own pleasure. Rocking upwards, Nylima kissed him hungrily, churning her hips in time to his thrusts, and she felt his groan rather than heard it. For a moment his pace faltered, and she pressed his shoulders, taking over, sinking and raising herself onto and along him, until it was his turn to begin arching.  
  
Panting into the side of his neck, “Isala na’enansal.”  
  
“Querida! Nylima, I...” it was a harsh grunt as his hands locked on her hips, pulling her tight to him and at long last she felt the quivering of his cock as he released himself deep inside, and she could not help her answering whimper, a tiny shockwave tearing through her body once again.  
  
With sighs as their bodies began to relax, Nylima kissed his face -- over his cheeks, forehead, jaw, chin and nose -- happy to be able to do such a thing with him. He was not Tamlen, he was Zevran, a separate and worthy entity. A man who had loyalty and mettle that was tempered in forges hotter than any durgen’len could ever contrive. He was a man unlike any she had ever known and was aware of what a privilege this sharing had been.  For now she wouldn’t say anything, would not offer herself up, but if he asked or showed any indication he desired the same of her, she would give it and gladly.  
  
The pleased and satisfied groan he let out was music to her ears, “Mmmn, now that is a splendid way to wake up in the morning.” Stretching shoulders popped audibly beneath her ear where she remained draped over him, eyes closed listening to him speak, “Perhaps I should get wounded more often if it results in this sort of after-care.”  
  
Brow furrowing, Nylima’s lips pursed, “No. Don’t say that.”  
  
“Ah, my cake is bothering you?” callused palms ran down her spine, cupping her bottom.  
  
“Say what you mean then,” grousing just a little bit.  
  
“Ah, emma sa’reth it was only a jest, a tease, nothing more. My tent is open to you whenever you desire,” fingers kneaded at her buttocks in easy familiarity, keeping her locked to him.  
  
Pushing up from him enough so she could look into his face, she saw that his eyes were closed, features relaxed and smooth, “If you would allow it, if...if you would like me to join you here or in mine, then that is well.”  
  
“Mmm,” it was nothing more than a small rumble of assent. “Your wish, querida, is mine then.”  
  
“No more cake?” asking hopefully.  
  
The edges of his eyes crinkled as he laughed at her, “I shall try, just for you. But do not expect too much. Just so long as you allow me to see what is in that book you scribble in so much, hm? I have been dying of curiosity. It makes a man wonder at what thoughts you hide away there....”  
  
“Deal,” saying firmly, no matter that she preferred her private thoughts private. Then again, if he was going to try and not use so many layers for her to wade through, then it would be alright, she supposed, if he could see her innermost thoughts as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Elvehn’alas - dirt elf  
> Ma serannas - thank you  
> na’tu ar’nehn - you create the joy i have (a form of saying ‘it was my pleasure/your welcome’)  
> emma sa’reth - my one safety (affectionate, similar to my heart or my love, but with lighter implications)  
> Isala na’ir elgar - I am in need of more of your spirit (implied/usage: I need more of your cum/seed or I want more of you)  
> Abelas, emma durgen’din - sorry, I am not hard (anymore)  
> Emma s’arla, na’isala’atisha - my one home, I need more of your peace, (implied/used: I need you/want you.)  
> Nuvenin na’mi sahlin, Zevran, s’arla, na’din ar nehn’din - I need your blade now, Zevran, {my} one home, without you I am without joy (I need you now, my love/sweet, without you I am empty)  
> Isala na’enansal - I am in need of your gift (I need you to release in me/I need your seed)  
> Querida - beloved  
> Durgen’len - stone child (dwarves)


End file.
